The Grasshopper

Still life within this urban dwelling seen,
A grasshopper so far from field and stream,
Lone lifeless shell of life lived well is here?
So out of place; a foreign place to die.

You stir such distance memories e’en now,
I’d thrill to hear you play your happy song,
To see you jump and fly from grasping hands,
You did not bite so you were quite the friend.

Once caught a pure delight ensued within,
The wonder in our eyes to see you close,
Upon our little palms you’d sit and stare,
And startle little hearts you’d fly away.

Once caught we’d close our little hand to keep,
And carry you to show neighbor or friend,
With open hand to show the prize we’d found,
You stained our hands with brown disgusting goo.

We flipped you off to wipe away your stain,
Our friends all laughed to see our grimaced face,
And one would laugh and say, “It’s no big deal”,
“He spits tobacco when he is afraid!”

Profound and pondered fact has entered in,
Imagination is the fondest friend,
The grasshopper is just an old, old man,
He hops, he sings, but spits when he is mad.

This lad he lingers with his fearless thought,
And off again to catch the winged thing,
To hold it near and stare into his eye,
And say, “Now don’t you spit at me again!”

Perhaps a child on field trip did find,
Long legged friend he took you from your home,
You spit into his hand and he released-
You into such a strange and distant place.

And now a man I see my fallen friend,
I’ve reached to pick you up and hold once more,
And carry you a mile or two to find,
A grassy field; now home to rest in peace.

Peter Lowell Paulson
September 1, 2011